


I Can't Decide

by corvidscribe



Category: Fallen Hero Series - Malin Rydén
Genre: Assassin AU, Gen, Other, little a gun violence as a treat, lot of screaming, several unintentional instances of very localized spanglish so step is a burqueño in this i guess, whadda hell, whhhhhh i don't understand ao3 tags still, world's most pathetic shootout, you just tag things that happen no?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-01-20
Packaged: 2021-03-14 09:15:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28668324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/corvidscribe/pseuds/corvidscribe
Summary: Four times Crow Basri failed to assassinate their target and then a fifth time they also failed but really, really badly.
Relationships: Ortega/Sidestep (Fallen Hero)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 15





	1. Resolutely Focused on You

The first few times you met him are barely worth mentioning, honestly.

All you get out of recalling those mishaps is a truly pervasive feeling of disappointment in yourself. You never used to be bad at this. You were, in fact, the best -- in the company, in the country. One of the top operatives in the world, or so your handler alleges. Well. So she alleged, before you failed four times. Now she probably wouldn’t, if she knew.

You're not entirely sure how many failures she  _ does _ know about. It’s been kind of a blur, these last few months. You're decently sure that if she realized you were on attempt number five, you'd be dead by now, which means she must not know. Safest to keep it under wraps until you've finished the job. If you can finish the fucking job. 

Trying to push the recollections back, though, is a futile effort, so you keep getting lost in thought. Distracted. Like you  _ weren't  _ the last four times you've tried this. No excuses for… for the time before this, when you had the shot lined up and misfired and had to retreat. For the time before when you poisoned his drink at a party and he spilled it down his front and you watched from the shadows in a shitty wig and a caterer’s uniform as he laughed and excused himself from the function early. For the second attempt, when you stepped out of line for the first time and went on a job unsanctioned by your handler to try to correct things and just chased him round the downtown area in circles in a hijacked sedan, missing every opportunity to get him. 

There was definitely no excuse for the first attempt. When you were waiting for hours on top of a building, like you are now. When you saw him approaching the roof through the floor-to-ceiling windows on the top floor, like he was supposed to. Your info had been good. Your shot would've been clean. It would've been another easy job. A throwaway. 

If he hadn't turned and smiled and waved at you. Like he knew you were up there. Like he didn't care. No big deal. 

There was no excuse for you to falter and not take the shot, for the first time in your life. You went back to your handler and told her he never showed, and you're still not sure if she bought it. 

She just asked if something was wrong and brought you in for another psych evaluation with one of the company’s specialists and you lied your way through that. She picked you up and you went to lunch and she reassured you she'd work out the details of the next opportunity to get the target and hand it back over to you when the time was right. 

And then you went behind her back and tried it three more times, each failure less excusable than the last.

“It's like you're fucking trying to flub it, Basri,” you mutter to yourself.

To be fair, right now, you're just stuck waiting again. It's been at least half an hour, and he still hasn't shown up. Which is stupid. You know you've got the right address. His actual apartment. Idiot-- he should know better than to leave his personal information as unguarded as he has, for someone so high-profile. Better for you. But then, he's still not showing. There are no functions this evening, no meetings. He’s fallen out of the habit of going to fancy clubs and restaurants in the last few months, given the multiple attempts on his life that he clearly, somehow, knows about. He should be here by now, but you can see from the idiot’s open blinds and untinted windows that he is not. 

You dig through the pockets of your cargo pants and pull out a half-empty blister pack of nicotine gum, popping a piece in your mouth and chewing furiously as you glare down your sights, scanning the visible length of the penthouse apartment for what must be the fiftieth time. Scowling as you chew, you reel back from the rifle, letting your eyes refocus on the broader horizon. So he’s gonna play hard to get. That’s fine. You can wait him out. Given enough time, a watchful bird of prey will get its perfect opportunity to swoop down and snatch the mouse. You can camp here every night for weeks if you must. All this negativity is just serving to get you down. Bide your time, no more mistakes. You know you can fix this. You are the best at what you do. 

As you let a smirk creep onto one corner of your mouth, you spot it. A tiny movement in the distance. You slam forward into a crouch once more, aiming in the direction of the penthouse’s front door. Sure enough— sure enough. There he is.

The one that keeps getting away.

Sights zoomed in as far as they go, you follow his movements. He nudges the door shut with his shoulder and walks across the floor, traversing his living room with a spring in his step. He walks into one of the back rooms, maybe the bedroom.  _ Come on _ , you think,  _ how about settling down on that nice mid-century-style couch and relaxing a while? Kick back and get a nice long rest. _

You chuckle to yourself, shrugging on your self-confidence like a well-worn, reliable winter coat. You’ve got this, you keep reminding yourself. After this, you can report back to your handler, tell her you struck out on your own  _ once _ , and the first job you’ve ever flubbed was taken care of just fine in the end. Go back to normal. Stop losing sleep over this asshole.

Sure enough, he strolls back out a few minutes later, clad in sweatpants and a plain long-sleeve shirt. And— wait. Oh, for fuck’s sake. Running shoes. Does he have a treadmill in there somewhere? He fucking better, you swear, if he leaves again for a goddamn jog after you’ve been waiting here for an hour—

And then, as he approaches the front door again, he turns to face you. You freeze, staring down the sights. He’s doing it again. He’s looking right at you. He’s really gonna… Yep. The smug bastard gives you a smirk, and he  _ winks.  _ He winks, and he walks over to the windows, and… he draws the blinds. They come cascading down all the way along the wall, blocking your view entirely. You could shoot anyway, one time, several times, hope you get him somewhere vital, but all that's likely to do is attract attention and see him given a security detail, make your job harder later on. Not that it should be hard now.

“ _ FUCK!” _ you let the scream tear out of your vocal cords and fly off with the wind, not waiting to see if he shows up on the street before you spring up to a standing position — ignoring the cracking in your knees — and grab your rifle. You hesitate for a moment, twitching with indecision, before you click the safety on and ditch the rifle. You’re not letting him get away again. Not this time. You hurry into the building you’ve been camping on, willing to gamble on your ability to reach the street before he does. You’ve got a handgun, and if that fails, you’ve got your fists. Not much some city bureaucrat can do against either.

The building passes by in a blur as you rush down the stairs, nearly tripping more that once at the speed you’re going. You barely slow down enough not to run facefirst into the door as you reach the ground floor, and the pause to pull it open is all that breaks your momentum enough to stop you from darting into traffic. 

_ Dumbass,  _ you chide yourself. You’re not thinking. You’re acting rashly. Maybe now’s not the time to be doing this. Maybe you should at least wait until you’re running on more than an hour or two of disjointed sleep and several energy drinks. On the other hand— you launch yourself across the busy road as traffic stalls itself out, ignoring the angry honks from the drivers in your vicinity— there’s no time like the present. 

Your eyes scan the sidewalks and the road, panic building in your chest when you don't spot him. You round the corner toward the front entrance of the building, trying to look discreet for the doorman who's already eyeballing you like he's ready to call the cops. Guess your work clothes don't do much to put forth that ‘innocent civilian’ look, but at least your face is hidden by a pair of oversized, tinted sunglasses, or you couldn't be doing this. It's not like you were prepared to be seen today. Perhaps if you were being smart about this, doing it by the book, you'd take the time to go change clothes, play delivery man or something, sneak up to the apartment, get the job done. You're really not being smart about it, though. That ship sailed the first time around.

You stride forward, ignoring the doorman’s repeated, indignant “excuse me!” and preparing to charge straight through the door, see if you can catch him in the lobby, when.

There he is.

He stands most of a foot taller than you, you can tell from where you stand. Checks out. It's really him, up close; black hair tousled in that effortless way only money can buy, unmarred deep brown skin showing how well-taken-care-of the man is, laugh lines and crow’s feet beginning to form, showing his age, showing how much of his life he's spent smiling. Hard to tell if it's genuine or not, with these types.

You stop in your tracks about six feet from him, the doorman a little closer, standing between the two of you and stammering. You glare at him, but there's no reaction, your eyes invisible behind the sunglasses. Good. He won't remember your face if he's asked. Your attention snaps to the target, gears shifting in your hesd to try and figure out how to do this-- have to get him away from the building, away from a street view, into the alley nearby? He won't pursue you, though, and he won't go the right way if you chase him, he's clearly smart enough for that much at least--

“There you are,” he says, smiling, looking right at you. Your spine stiffens. “A guest of mine,” he addresses the doorman, who looks uneasy at the prospect but nods respectfully anyway. What the fuck? “I was starting to think you'd never show. Let's go up.”

What. The.  _ Fuck _ . Is he playing at.

The target waves an arm, a generous gesture, taking you in. He's asking you to follow him. It's… It’s almost too easy. You have to bite back the laugh forming in the base of your throat, ducking your head instead as you make up your mind to go with him. Does he have a deathwish or something? All the better for you if that's the case.You turn your head away from the doorman as you walk through, no need to give him a closer look. The company will clean up after you here, but there's no need to take extra risks, not more than you have already. No need to make anyone's life harder, lest you face the consequences for it. 

The lobby is high-class, in contrast to the target’s running getup, in contrast to, well, you. Everything is white or cream-colored, most of it looks antique. There's gold-painted filigree details on the corners of the walls. You're used to excess, with the types of targets you're assigned, but it's still too rich for your blood. You're meant to blend into the background, play someone innocuous, someone worthless, another face in a crowd of people your target and his ilk don't need to care about. Someone you would've been if your life hadn't gone this way. The high ceilings, the chandeliers, they tower above you. It makes you feel small. You're grateful despite yourself when the target steps into an elevator. Refocus, maybe you can just do it now and get out--

Nope. Of course not. There are two women in the elevator with you. That just makes it worse. You're not fond of the things on a  _ good _ day, and this is not one of those. The target stands close to the doors, front and center, while the women stand close together in the back. Older, richer, snobby. They look down their noses at you and you pretend not to notice, turning your head to stare at the warped reflection of the target in the metal surface of the elevator walls. He presses a button -- his floor. You let your one-sided smirk show for just a second, then settle in to wait. Patience. This is a game you can play. 

After an excruciating minute, the elevator halts. You feel the lurch in your chest, in your guts, and you force your way out of the elevator before the target can take his first step. 

“Evening, girls,” he says to the two women still inside the elevator as he exits, casual, leisurely. Neither acknowledge him, closing the door on both of you, leaving you alone.

Figures. Three witnesses already. You really can't afford to screw this up.

Looking around the landing, it seems like the two of you are alone on the floor. Of course. There's a wall over to the left separating the building into what you guess is halves -- two penthouses, someone on the other side of that wall, and your target. The door to the penthouse is nearby, a wrought-iron arch over its frame. This is the one. It's all so gaudy. 

For a moment, you're unsettled by how very little your target, the inside of his apartment, his clothes, his manner, all suit his surroundings. You've noticed this about him before, with your other attempts. He's too casual. So comfortable anywhere he is as to seem uncomfortable with it when the environment is more controlled than him. You wonder again why he's led you up here, and why he's leading you into his apartment now. No one else is out here, it's  _ his  _ floor, but he's going for the extra measure of privacy. He must really wanna die today.

You follow him inside the penthouse barely a step behind him, fingers already reaching for the handgun in your pocket, and--

You're slammed against the wall, the target’s left forearm pressed up against your neck, his right hand grabbing yours, grabbing the gun out of it, and you choke. The air is knocked out of your lungs, leaving you gasping and wheezing as he lets up only slightly on your throat, keeping you pinned. Looking up, you see his face is neutral. The smile is gone, nothing to replace it; it’s not a practiced expression, not forced, he just doesn’t care. You’re in his home with a handgun and intent to kill and he doesn’t care. He tucks the handgun into the waistband of his own sweatpants, and looking up— glaring, more like— into his face you can see how tired he looks for the first time. Stray greys in his hair, weary eyes, bags under them as purple as a fresh bruise, rivalling yours.

“Pleased to finally meet you,” he says, voice showing none of this sudden stoicness or neutrality, just amused, teasing. “Crow, I presume?”

Your eyes widen despite yourself. How does he know your name? Well — your callsign, anyway? Nobody knows you. You don’t exist. You struggle to form a response, but your lungs are still heaving away, trying to refill, useless to let you speak even if you had the words. 

“You keep trying to kill me. It doesn’t seem like you’re very good at it,” he continues. “I always thought you were supposed to be one of the better ones.”

You wheeze indignantly at him, and he looks like he’s just realized what’s going on. He cracks a grin, slow, letting it spread across his face and reach his eyes. Genuine. He’s having fun with this.

“Right. I should let you talk, huh?”

You just keep glaring at him, rubbing your throat when he releases you, leaning against the wall on your own for support. He retreats across the room, falling onto the couch, as nonchalantly as if he were alone, and pulls  _ your _ handgun from his waistband, playing with it, clicking the safety off and on a few times before tossing it at his feet. He looks over at you expectantly.

You’re in your target’s home, alone, unprepared, no backup, no notice to your handler, and now you’ve been disarmed. What the hell do you have to say for yourself?

“... Ricardo Ortega.” It’s all you can manage to fill your voice with venom as you spit out his name.

“That’s me,” the target grins. Your fists clench. “So, Crow. Why don’t you explain to me what you’re doing here?”

—

  
  


“Okay,” he says. “Tell me if I’m missing anything. You work for GT. GT wants me dead. You were put on the case, and then failed to kill me four times. You haven’t been telling them, or you  _ wouldn’t  _ be getting these chances. So here you are, getting to know me on my home turf, because you, GT’s top operative, let me disarm you.” He shoots you a glance from his relaxed position on the couch. “And I  _ am _ giving you the benefit of the doubt on that one. It shouldn’t have been that easy. You must be going through some shit, huh?”

You grit your teeth. He’s not wrong, you suppose; preferable to admit to _going through_ _some shit_ over just failing miserably at your job for no reason, four— well, five times now. 

“Wouldn’t call it getting to know you,” you rasp, voice still stretched thin on longer sentences. “Makes it sound like I  _ want _ to be telling you any of this.”

“Ah,” he blinks, exaggerated, lips turned down, a quick mouth shrug. He’s not taking this seriously at all. His eyes go to your gun in his hand, which he’s had turned on you for the last fifteen or twenty minutes. You’re sitting against the wall he slammed you into, knees drawn up to your chest, seething. “Fair point, Crow. Still, I’d say we’re having fun, no?”

“No,” you groan.

He clicks his tongue. “Aww.  _ Pobrecito _ . I guess four failed assassination attempts isn’t a great start to a friendship.” You don’t respond, and he just sighs. “Come on. How about a ‘better than one successful one,’ or something?”

“Pass.” 

“Fine, fine. Look, I appreciate the intel, even if you didn’t want to give it. I’m not trying to make an enemy here. Actually—“ he clears his throat, “— I should tell you something.”

You blink at him. It’s starting to come together, actually; he knows the business GT is really in, not many people do. He’s been asking questions nonstop, waving your gun around (it’s making you nervous, actually, you’re not really sure he knows how to use it at this point). Loathe as you are to admit it, you’re pretty certain he lured you here on purpose. At least you can spin this in your favor— getting abducted by a target who knew too much is still not great, but some intensive physical training to make sure you won’t get taken in again is better than… the alternatives. Plus, if he’s willingly sharing information, too…

“Well?” you ask, lifting your hand in a ‘get on with it’ motion. He actually looks kind of remorseful? 

“This is the… what, fifth? Time that you've tried to get me? I hate to say it, Crow, but there's no way your company doesn't know about this. They may play dumb, but that's just how they get to you when you're least expecting them. I would watch my back, if I were you.”

“Watch my back,” you repeat, dumbfounded. “You're about to kill me, and you're telling me to watch my back?” You had always imagined your death with a little more drama than this, in your line of work. 

“What?” He almost flinches, looking over at you with something weird you can’t quite deduce written on his face, so you just raise your eyebrows, gaze shifting to the handgun. “Err... Oh! Oh, no, I’m not going to kill you. I’m holding onto this because I don’t want  _ you _ trying to kill  _ me,  _ ¿ _ claro _ ?”

You consider. Seems he’s being honest, or at least has no tells otherwise; he doesn’t want you dead. Not by his hand, anyway. Not in his home. That’s probably all it is; god forbid he gets a bloodstain on the carpet. Fine. 

“ _ Sí, claro.”  _ He smiles and you narrow your eyes. 

There’s no tension in his sprawling pose, no suggestion of any attempt to be less physically vulnerable than he looks right now. You could kill him anyway, without your gun. Especially now that you know he doesn’t want to kill you, so you seriously doubt he’ll try to shoot you anywhere nonvital, the man just screams ‘poor aim.’ You have a pocket knife on you; you have your bare hands. So why aren’t you going for it? It’s your job. It’s what you came here to do. 

Your brow furrows, an accidental show of concern, and you suppress it quickly.

“How do you figure GT knows about this?” you ask, “How do you figure  _ I’m  _ in danger?” You don't want to admit it, but the prospect is worrying you. You've been telling yourself they can't know, or something would've happened to you by now, but...

He sighs. “That's just how they work. You think they give their operatives advance notice when they're trying to snuff them out?”

“No,” you snap, “I don't know, but-- look, what would  _ you _ know about how they run things anyway?” 

Ricardo Ortega stares at you for a long moment, long enough that you get fidgety and avert your gaze, breaking eye contact between the two of you. 

“I’m only telling you this because I know you're screwed.” 

“Got it.” Sure. Maybe more you can use against him if you have to explain this whole thing to your handler. Some shit he has on the company, or  _ thinks _ he has on the company; makes you a little more impressive if you take out someone who's been a danger to them the whole time. 

“I used to work for GT. Not on your side of things, higher up. My father had ties to the company, it's how he funded most of his campaigns, and I was grandfathered in. I was on the board. I know what the process is for getting rid of a rogue operative because I’ve been a part of planning it.”

“I’m not rogue,” you point out, “I’m trying to finish a job.”

“Are you, though? You're not doing too hot with that.” The look on his face is unbearably smug; you meet it with a scowl.

“Shut up. Why should I listen to an excommunicated member of the board who only got there through nepotism? Who’s got a hit out on him now?” You spit your sentences out, feeling more aggravated with every word. 

“Never said you had to. I already got what I needed from this little visit, you can take or leave my advice.”

“Can I just  _ leave _ ?” you ask. 

“ _ Por supuesto _ . Go ahead.”

You don't take the time to respond, just lean back against the wall, heavily, feigning weakness as you stand. You rub your throat once more, faking a step towards the door, and, just as the target leans his head back on a couch cushion, you make your move. Springing up on the balls of your feet, you launch yourself toward him, and before you can even register how he’s sitting bolt upright, turning, the movement of his arm--

“ _ RRRRARGH--”  _ your own shout of pain sounds like grinding metal in your ears even through the loud crack of the handgun firing, pain exploding from your leg-- he shot? He fucking shot you, your hand goes down to find the hole in your trousers, the blood spilling from your leg, the--  _ mierda _ , it barely grazed you but there's so much blood--

You collapse down onto the floor, gasping in shock. The target has dropped your gun and is moving toward you, and it's all you can do to flinch away harshly enough that he stops, putting up his hands in a defensive gesture. Like you're the danger to him, still. Like he didn't just  _ shoot you. _ “WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU DO?” you're yelling, and he's tossing out curses rapid-fire, some Spanish, some English, and--

“ _ Mierda,  _ you little bastard, if you hadn't come at me like that… Look, you need to get out of here. Building security.”

“I need to get out--? Might be easier if I hadn't just been shot in the leg! Fuck you!” You want to keep fighting, you kind of want to take him out just for shooting you now, but he's grabbing you by the shoulders and shoving you out the door, down the hall, toward the elevator and then away and toward the emergency staircase when the both of you notice the elevator lights flashing as someone ascends. 

“Just go down this way,” he says as he leaves you standing on your own, yanking open the stairwell door for you, “I’ll act drunk or something.” 

“Fine, jesus--” you manage to gasp out, limping through the door and beginning to lower yourself onto the first stair, the gash in your leg screaming its displeasure at you the entire time. As he turns to leave, you almost shout after him,but he's gone in a flash.

Fuck. Okay. You need to get out of here.

You start down the stairs, only managing one flight before you decide to brave the elevator again, clutching your leg with shaking hands-- thank fuck no one else is on it. You strip your jacket off and tie it around your leg, just to cover the wound, not too tight. This was a bad idea. This was such a fucking bad idea. 

Nobody tries to use the elevator, it's just you and the walls and the ceiling that feels like it wants to crush you. You don't stop to ponder anyone's weird looks as you exit the elevator back into the lobby, you don't spare a glance to the doorman as you charge out and back across the street. You just need to get home.

Tomorrow, your handler will visit your apartment with a new assignment. Tomorrow, you'll know for sure if you're still in their good graces. And fuck, you really hope you are. 


	2. My only institution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A protein shake, an underestimation, a disowning, a sniper, a confrontation, a rescue. In that order.

The first thing to hit you when you wake up is the pain. It disorients you, sends your mind spiraling for a moment, like a car flipping over in a crash. Feels like time has stopped, the way your head is spinning-- then you force your eyes open, force yourself to focus on something, settle on the view of the city from the window. Your window. Your apartment, _right,_ that's where you are. You dragged yourself home yesterday, limping all the way onto the subway and then all the way down the road. It wasn't until you'd gotten home that you realized you left your rifle on that building opposite the target’s, and you only had to sit still long enough for the wound to start aching anew before you decided you didn't care.

The wound isn't bad; it's not as deep as it could be, fairly clean considering, and not too wide. You cleaned it out good last night, slapped some gauze on it, and that’s just going to have to do. You don't really have time enough to deal with it any further right now; today is important. You force yourself out of the warm cocoon of your bed, shoving the blanket and topsheet into a pile at the foot of the mattress. The air hits your bare skin and you shiver, swinging your legs over the side, treating the injured one delicately. Training back when you were a teenager was rough, but you haven't been in a fight where you actually got hit in years. Much less a firefight, if it can even be called that when it was really just you getting shot.

Okay, fine. You haven't been shot before, and now you have. Whatever. You're only a little bitter about it. 

You limp over to the closet to dress yourself. You select a plain tee shirt, comfortable boxer briefs, and a pair of baggy cargo pants, wincing when you pull the heavy fabric across your wound. It'll be better in the long run, looser, won't stress the wound. Your handler will chastise you for dressing so blandly -- acts like she's your mother, always trying to get you to dress up more, admonishing you for leaving nearly all your earnings in a savings account instead of buying nice things for yourself -- but you'd rather joke with her about about wearing army surplus clothes with thousands in the bank than have a conversation about why you're clutching at your leg in pain. 

Still limping, you course through the kitchenette and grab a protein drink before sitting down at the little table by the window. Routine is nice. Staring out the window at the city below, sipping something bland but nutritious. Taking in your generic, curated surroundings, the company-furnished studio you've lived in for years safely containing you, may as well be home even though it doesn't feel like _yours_ . Waiting for your handler to show. Normal. Predictable. Easy. You let out a long sigh and set your drink on the table to stretch a little. Only then, you notice the time. She's late. She's _never_ late. The hairs on the back of your neck stand up, gooseflesh ridging up across your bare arms. Shit.

“ _A la ve...”_ your voice comes out in a mumble, train of thought derailing just as there's a sound of shuffling feet at your door. You freeze. Wait. Wait for the knock.

taptaptap. taptap. scratch (a knuckle dragged across the door, sideways), tap.

S-I-N.

It's your handler.

You rise quickly, ignoring the pain in favor of the heady rush of relief-- you'll check your leg after she leaves, but right now you're _fine._ The target must have been bullshitting. You just have to get your new assignment and ignore the wound and you're golden; no one will be the wiser about your mistakes. You undo the latches and turn the locks, muttering a quiet ‘just a moment,’ affirmed with a ‘hm’ from the other side of the door.

You swing the door open and stand face-to-face with your handler, nodding a greeting. “Sinéad. Good morning.”

You fix your gaze just to one side of hers, not quite making eye contact, just looking like you are. She offers you a tight-lipped smile that doesn't reach her weary blue-green eyes, smooths her pantsuit, walks inside, sits down at your table and regards your protein drink breakfast with a bit of contempt.

“I don't know how you can live off these things, Crow.” 

You laugh, a short, nervous sound. Of course she starts this meeting with the same casual distaste for your lifestyle as usual. No, nothing hidden in that thought; it's because this _is_ ‘as usual.’ Nothing is wrong, nothing is different than usual, you're fine. At least, that's what you're telling yourself as you scan her person for hidden firearms. Not that you could ask her to surrender them if you spotted any-- no. Not that you need to worry about it. 

“They're easier than anything else,” you explain, feeling like you have to, “And healthier than what I used to eat most of the time.”

“Ah, yes, the microwave meals. I’ll cop to these being an improvement on _that_ garbage. You're lucky your training at the time kept you in shape. Get me some water, would you?”

“Sure,” you mutter, looking down at your feet as you navigate the kitchenette, careful not to bump into her feet with yours in the small space-- careful not to limp, either, even though the wound feels like it's on fire now, getting jostled around like this. It's easy to forget what you're doing for a moment, but-- right, yes, water. Avoiding the counter with your bad leg, you stretch up to reach one of the tall cups in the cabinet--

“Not one of those,” Sinéad says, voice loud and stern. You turn your head to look back at her. “Give me a rocks glass. I hate these highball glasses they stock operative apartments with. Deeply unstylish, wouldn't you agree?”

You have no fucking clue what a rocks glass is, or what she's talking about, so you just say “Sure,” and grab one of the short round ones. No disapproval from Sinéad, so maybe you picked right. Hopefully.

She keeps going on about glasses as you switch on the water filter and run the tap. No ice, she's not above going a bit ballistic when someone gives her ice-- not what you want to contend with today. “Of course,” she's saying as you turn around and set the glass on the table in front of her, “I’m sure you're just grateful to have anything at all, aren't you, Crow? GT has always provided well for you, even if you're unable to recognize bad taste when you see it.”

A quick, mirthless smile, and you lower yourself (with no small amount of effort expended not to groan in pain) into the chair across from her. She took your seat, because of course she did; you're now in full view of the floor-to-ceiling windows, sun boring down on you, while she sits behind a solid wall, shaded, protected. Tentatively, you reach over to her side of the table for your protein drink, and thankfully she doesn't react. You sip from the bottle, grimacing at the texture, and she snorts. 

“It's such a shame you never figured it out. How to live like it’s worth it, I mean.” Sinéad has this look on her face, half-mocking, half-pitying, and you don't like that tone. That tense. _Mierda_.

You may be in denial, but you're not stupid. Something is very wrong. Your mouth twitches, gaze dropping to the surface of the table, following the shine across the lacquer of it. Shifting to the window, squinting against the sunlight as you try to scan the horizon without making it too obvious that's what you're doing. You can't see shit.

“I have a new assignment today, don't I?” you ask, voice thin, “Where’s the file?”

“For someone to have achieved as much as you did, it's really impressive. Why couldn't you ever see that about yourself? How impressive you were? You could have gone much farther than a two-hundred-square-foot apartment. You could have been where I am.”

Her face shows nothing; she's been trained to stay emotionless even longer than you have; there's nothing nonverbal to pick up on. You'd only be confused right now, if you hadn't been tipped off. If _he_ hadn't…

“You know I’m grateful for everything GT does for me,” you reply, voice wobbling for a moment before you catch it and hold it still. It doesn’t matter. If Sinéad hadn’t smelled the fear on you before, there’s no way that gleam in her eyes _doesn’t_ indicate that she’s caught the scent now. Something is about to happen, something bad, you can feel it. You tense your muscles, ready to spring into action at any moment. Ignoring the pain. If your leg gets caught in a trap, you gnaw it off. The company has taught you that much. “I’m eternally grateful, and that’s why I’d like my next assignment. To repay you.”

Sinéad sighs, unpleasant, toothy smirk settling onto her face. 

“You know,” she says, “I wanted to be assigned my daughter.” She takes your lack of response as a signal to continue. You’re still peering out the window. “Loreley. She’s an assassin as well. Close to your age. I began training her very early on.”

“Earlier than you found me?” you ask, keeping your tone light.

“Earlier. Yes.” She sniffs. “If I _hadn’t_ found you, I would be working with her. The higher-ups insisted I was better off training an operative I wasn’t so close to. Not that Loreley and I have ever been close. Still, she was my pet project. The perfect killer. She still is; ranks just below you, in fact. Or rather,” Sinéad turns her eyes to you and you fake meeting them once again, “She _was_ just below you.”

You swallow, willing yourself not to panic, not to tear up. It’s over, but you have to keep your head on right. Door’s unlocked. Easy out. Coil yourself to spring—

“Was? Is she okay?” you ask with a tense smile.

“Better than okay.” Sinéad takes a single sip of her water, then places the glass gingerly back down. “She’s the company’s top operative as of today.”

“Is Loreley her real name? I thought operatives weren’t supposed to know each other’s names.” This is it.

“Good thing that doesn’t matter anymore. Crow… you’re dismissed.”

Okay.

There’s no time to second guess— you push hard against the table, tipping your chair, rolling backwards into a crouch with your left arm up to shield your face— just in time for a bullet to shatter the glass and a second one to glance past you, occupying the space where your head had been only a moment ago, before it buries itself in the wall next to the door. 

You have to keep moving quickly from here. The standard sniper rifles GT makes use of carry six bullets a round and take a moment to reload correctly. Take a moment to aim from such a distance, too, even for a dead shot like you. Just have to dodge four more. It’s a close call, you skittering ungracefully back across the apartment as each shot flies in front of your face. One, two, three— you cry out in frustration as you trip up a little, back one more foot and then standing— four. 

Sinéad is between you and the door, looking furious— you dart forward, grab your open protein shake and throw it at her, drenching her and blocking her vision, hearing her disgusted shout with no small degree of satisfaction. This is the only window you’ll get. You grab your jacket from the hook on the back of the door and slip on the first available footwear you can find, and you’re out the door, slamming it shut on the assumption that Sinéad is following; an assumption confirmed correct as you hear the shout and the thud of her landing on the floor. Success.

Adrenaline courses through you, an electrifying force which pushes you through the building to the emergency stairs at an alarming pace, one you’re fairly sure you’ve never run at before. Your leg has gone numb and you can’t even feel the new cuts on your arm from the shattered window. The weight of your knife in the jacket pocket is comforting, and—ah, _chingao,_ you don’t have a gun. 

All the more reason to run like hell.

For the second time in as many days you find yourself throwing yourself, panicked, down flight upon flight of stairs. This time you can’t stop, you can’t risk an elevator, and you can’t head home— you have nowhere to run to, even. You just have to pick a direction and _go._

It’s an excruciating several minutes before you reach the ground floor and push open a service door, tumbling onto the street. At the very least you’re on the wrong side of the building from the sniper— provided there’s not another one nearby. Provided Sinéad didn’t bring along a whole cavalry. If she didn’t, you’re a bit offended that she’s underestimated you. If she did, you’re in big fucking trouble. 

You stand there for a frantic moment, spinning your wheels on where to go, turning around in circles as you scan the streets. Where do you go? Where the _fuck_ do you go? At a loss, you’re about to point yourself in the direction of the nearest alleyway and head down it when someone bumps your shoulder. You barely notice, but they grab you suddenly— it takes all your focus to calm down and look who it is— some woman, saying something you’re not registering. She looks smug, voice not raised like you’d expect a stranger’s angry enough to stop someone on the street just for bumping into them to be. Waves of long red hair. Freckled. Windex-blue eyes. Scars. She looks like Sinéad.

“Loreley,” you say. The woman keeps her grip on your shoulder, inching her hand toward your throat ( _not again_ , you think), smirk falling into a sneer.

“Did she tell you my _name?_ That bitch,” her voice is clear as day now, though you can’t claim you care much what she’s saying. This… This is not a good spot to be in. “You know how easy you're making this? If you were my assignment, I’d gut you right now.” 

You try to pull out of her grasp, half-heartedly— the real attempt can wait, just see if you can get her to underestimate you and then make a break for it. Not letting go of your shoulder, she shoves you forward, striding away from the apartment building, across the road as traffic stalls out momentarily. “Let's keep walking, shall we?” 

“You don’t seem like the type to care about target claims,” you mutter, trying hard to tune out the pain of your no-doubt-reopened wound. Now that you're not thundering down any stairs, just keeping a brisk pace, every step sends a jolt up your leg… and you're pretty sure you feel something trickling down your calf.

“I’m not the type, you're right. But you’re a big one, Crow. If someone messes up on you like you messed up on that city council asshole… Hm.” 

“So why are you out here?”

She pulls a face, obviously insincere, like she's taken aback that you would doubt her. “Holding onto you for them. When I heard you escaped, like I _told_ them you would if they put that _idiot_ new kid on the job, I figured I would... offer some assistance.” 

You narrow your eyes at her. “You're going to have to try a little harder than this if you want to keep me here.”

“Mm, yeah,” she grins, “It would reflect pretty poorly on the guy whose job it is to kill you today, if you escaped the scene.” Saying this, she stops walking and relaxes her grip on your shoulder, brushing imaginary lint off your shirt. “I’m just saying, right now, I’m not here. Jackalope is up there with his little rifle, my mother’s probably making her way down from your old apartment, and I’m sure there's some backup around. But me? I’m at home right now, enjoying a bath, because _I_ haven't been assigned your file yet. All I wanted to do was make sure that when I _do_ get it…” Loreley gives you an appraising look, “You're not gonna make it this goddamn _boring_ for me to hunt you down.”

You scoff. “So you're letting me go just to make it more fun to try to track me down later.”

“Not _try_ , but yes.” Her smug look is driving you crazy-- you'd smack it off her face, but you realize at that exact moment that you can hear shouting from across the street, down by the apartment building, and panic hiccups back into your mind, revving like a misfiring engine. Loreley tilts her head, and you fake-meet her eyes with a glare.

“Not going to be much fun for either of us if they catch up right now,” you spit out.

“Very true, my friend. I guess you should get going.” She smirks, pats your shoulder. _If you knew where to go._

“Not a huge concern, apparently,” she says, and you hadn't realized you were voicing that thought out loud but now she's pointing off into traffic. You follow her gesturing hand with your eyes, and land on--

“You have got to be fucking kidding me.” You turn back to Loreley only to catch sight of her fifty feet away already, slipping into an alleyway like you'd been planning to start with. Asshole. Looks like you have no choice in the matter.

Reluctantly, ever so reluctantly, you approach the motorcyle that's stalling on the curb. 

“What the fuck are you doing here?” you demand of the rider. “How did you know where to find me?”

Ricardo Ortega flips up the tinted visor of his helmet and offers you a toothy grin. You don't return it.

“Put a tracker on your jacket,” he replies, pointing at the garment in your hand. “Which you might as well put on now, plus this--” he reaches for a helmet strapped to the back of the bike and tosses it at you, and you catch. The helmet is mirrored, blocks your entire face and covers your hair; despite your hesitance to be in this situation at all, you waste no time putting it on. You start searching the jacket for whatever tracker the target put on it yesterday but don't get very far before he clears his throat.

“We need to go.”

“Yeah, I just--”

“If you don't trust me, that's fine, but I think your chances are better on a bike than on the street in, ah, those.” He raises an eyebrow and motions with his chin to your shoes, which are… house slippers. You hadn’t noticed in the commotion.

“Point taken,” you reply, anxiously tapping one slippered foot. “But you're stalking me, and going with one stalker to escape--”

“ _There_!” Someone who sounds an awful lot like Sinéad shouts in the distance.

“Hey, Cuervo. ¡ _Andele_!” 

You're inclined to go with the stalker to escape, after all. Go figure.

You hiss through your teeth as you lift your injured leg over the motorcycle, and your savior-slash-stalker exhales in what almost seems like relief, revving the engine. 

“Grab on,” he says.

“To what?”

“To _me_ , idiot. We’ve got to go.”

“Where are we going?”

You hear him sucking his teeth, muted by the helmets. “I know a place. Doesn't matter-- we just have to go _now_.”

He barely leaves you time to grab hold of his sides, gingerly at first and then with force, as you're off. He U-turns through traffic, you go over the median and into the other lane, heading who-knows-where, weaving through traffic. 

Your wounds are _really_ starting to get to you now-- uncleaned lacerations on your arm are acting up, stinging like hell, you think you can feel a shard of glass still lodged in one of them and it's become apparent you got a few cuts on your side as well. There's no doubt in your mind that the bullet graze is open again, blood starting to pool around the elasticized hem of your pant leg, gradually soaking through the fabric. Not great. Not great, but you'll live. 

“How are you doing back there?” The target has to shout through the wind and both your helmets, and even then it's hard for you to parse what he's saying. The target-- you almost laugh at yourself. Guess that's not what he is anymore. He’s the guy who just saved your ass. How did this go so wrong? Your own hit having to rescue you from the company? Your head is starting to spin, nausea taking hold-- you're a little too short to see over his shoulders, too unsteady to lean over and watch the road as it passes by. The world is a blurred mess of angry honks from other drivers and the back of Ricardo Ortega’s shoulders, the worn black leather of his jacket fading in and out of focus, your head throbbing, the helmet feeling like it's the only thing anchoring you to this plane of reality. 

“Cuervo? You good back there?” he shouts again. Your ears muffle his voice for you. Like your body thinks that will help right now. You wheeze out a laugh, the bike slows, and the last things you hear before you black out is frantic yelling and what might have been a gunshot, although who’s to say, really. Last thing you feel is the leather jacket, slipping out from under your fingers. Last thing you see is the world going sideways as you fall.

And here you thought you'd be getting a new assignment today.


End file.
